


Midway into the Dream

by Abhorable



Series: Time [2]
Category: Dead by Daylight (Video Game), Halloween Movies - All Media Types
Genre: "daddy myers", F/F, F/M, M/M, Other, but greenbeans, hurt comfort, if you continue to squint you can see some light choking stuff, knifeplay if you squint, michael is a tree, ok so i had to reupload this and i'm mad so here's what i REMEMBER this was tagged with, this asshole loves nothing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-09
Updated: 2018-12-20
Packaged: 2019-08-21 01:56:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16567394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Abhorable/pseuds/Abhorable
Summary: A continuation of The Beginning of the End and part of the Time series.The Reader is thoroughly invested in Michael's case, and having spent roughly a day in his presence, falls further into the thick of it.





	1. Grasp

My breathing grew sharp and rushed as I could feel my breath against his hand, and soon reverberated back on my face with just how hard he had held me down. Now with eyes wet and wild with pure terror, I began to flail.

Lunging for the window only brought me further from my goal as Michael fought to keep me contained. His other arm snaking around me, he began to constrict.  
Unwilling to give up a fight, and in that beautiful reaction of fight and flight, neither was I.

A solid minute or so, involving me trying to push myself off of Michael and out the window while he was being slammed into the wall by both his own force and mine.  
I was working against myself in every aspect, and Michael hardly needed to do anything.  
The inhuman strength brought on by adrenaline in my own bloodstream was dying off, and I was consumed once again by hunger and a need to breathe. But there I lay, as he grappled and ensnared to keep me just where he decided he wanted me to be.

Panting, muscles still twitching in any attempt for futile escape as hot tears started to blink out of my eyes.  
Eventually, he had even just let go of my face, letting my ragged breathing thoroughly escape. Which was a blessing in the fact that my quiet whimpers could reach the rest of essentially just the room. But a curse in the fact he wrapped his other arm around me, which wasn't exactly great for my breathing in the long run.

And I began to sob. And sob. Tears flowing down my cheeks as I emptily stared up at him, animalistic fear mixed with a healthy dosage of soul-crushing disappointment suddenly beginning to well within me.  
And he held me the entire way through.  
It wasn't comforting. His arms wrapped around me in a coffin's death-grip, and legs thrown up and over mine to cage me further. It was confining, enslavement to keep me from the world I'd known for so long. Ripped from me, no questions asked.

I really was just a pet in this situation, wasn't I?

His hands wound their way back into my hair, though I was less willing to let it happen this time. It was like fighting a nightcrawler. Michael remained full of energy, probably something to do with his murderous lust, and my body gave in five minutes ago.  
I didn't want him to pet me, to be treated like a dog.  
Not when I'd heard he's eaten a few.

Tears still rolling down my face, I felt as he continued to rub his fingers against my skin.  
His breath upon my skin. The heat barely escaping the mask, and soon ceasing as he inhaled again, face pressed against the back of my head.  
How could this be, in any sort of realm of the imagination, okay? In any way, shape or form?

Through countless tears, I sat and cried against him, only for the fact he refused to let me leave.  
The liquid began to freeze against my cheek, a chill pressed deep to my skin.

But at least with my eyes dry enough, I could tell he was holding something. His arm against my stomach, holding me in place, and his hand had some sort of metal within the palm of his hand.  
I was supposed to die last night. Not struggle for freedom and grovel for warmth and forgiveness so that I wouldn't have a knife lodged in my stomach after so much begging already.

I felt his eyes on my back, and my shaking form simply didn't help. I was a sporadic mess, he was going to coddle and stab me for crying out loud.  
This was a story I'd never be able to tell. And who even knows how long until my camera is corrupted and the photos go undeveloped forever.  
Nobody would ever even know where or when I died. I'd go forgotten and alone into the hollow night of death. Nobody would know my name, it wasn't like I'd done anything remotely worthwhile in life. Nothing to be remembered for, by anyone aside from worried family members who'd eventually forget me, too.

Blinking a few times, I could feel a few more absentminded tears drip down my face. Michael took his thumb to my cheek and brushed them off, leaving only the chill behind of the November air.  
Fuck.  
Where was my knife?  
It sure as hell wasn't tied to my wrist anymore, so Michael must have taken it while I passed out, or I lost it after then.

And now I really couldn't put up more of a fight.

I felt his arm move up my stomach, and still showing off those glimmers of silver from between his fingers.  
He pulled it up, just barely enough for me to see.  
Far too thick to resemble a blade. A cylinder, really. Thick metal bands all down the sides.  
I was afraid for my life because of an unlabeled can. With another sob, I recall I am stupid once more.

I felt his breath hitch against my back as he waited.  
Sniffling, I took a closer look at it. Mostly undamaged and unopened, it seemed to contain food. Because what else do you put in an aluminum can?  
I moved my arm up to take it, shakily putting my hand over his.  
He began to breathe against my neck again as I touched his hand.

"You-you found a can?" I mumbled, watching with bleary eyed amusement as I could hear and feel the latex of his mask rub against the back of my head.  
He seemed, to some degree, proud of himself.  
I began to worm my fingers between his, eventually pulling it from his hands. Still heavy with whatever was inside, it seems he didn't have any genuine intent on letting me starve.  
I am horrified, but grateful.

I fumbled to get out of his lap, his hand still latched to my shoulder, as I pulled myself beside him rather than within his caged form. And he watched ever so intently.

"Your knife." He perked up to hear me speak. "Can I borrow it?"

I could already feel the seeping hatred emanating from him as the words escaped my lips.

"To-open the can-" I could already feel my heart crawling up my throat, praying to be spared from his wrath.  
But he didn't do anything. He sat, and watched. His favorite hobby, clearly.  
Slowly putting his hands down, he beckoned me over towards him, hands reaching for mine. So I set the can on the floor, one of the circle sides down so that it didn't roll away.

Expecting him to stab it flat out, I began to murmur again. "Cut around the edges so it doesn't splatter everywhere, okay?"  
He moved concisely, robotically. He began to stand, head tilting ever so slightly as he stared down at me.  
"Do you not have it?"  
He walked off.

The fact he has gone to retrieve his weapon of choice has me scared enough not to attempt the window again.

He returned little less than a moment later, butcher's knife in hand. It's no secret it's stained with blood, and rusted near the hilt of the blade.  
Nonetheless, he sits again, slender limbs sprawling out on the floor oh-so unnaturally. He stares at me for little less than a moment before letting the knife clatter to the floor.  
It's stupidly reminiscent of that one scene in How To Train Your Dragon.

I pick it up graciously with quivering hands, and pull the can back to myself on the floor.  
The knife's handle is clearly made for larger hands, weighted in such a way that makes it lopsided and heavy. Workable enough to use for the task, though.  
And I began the mission of prodding at the metal until I found a loose edge, and began to carefully pull at the metal with the tip of the blade, with heavy fear of breaking it.  
Luckily enough, it slipped just enough for me to slide the knife just under the cover and pry it off.

Michael sat, eyes shining from behind his mask whenever I did something remotely interesting. I swear I could see the edges of young skin pulling at the corners of his eyes, and feel his breathing get just that small amount more rapid.

And with momentary triumph, I revealed what appeared to be green beans (probably) much older than myself.  
Though not molded or shriveled, it was clear this can was old just by the years of grime packed onto it's side. But the contents, fortunately for me, remained fresh.

And I was dead certain he was going to stuff his knife between each of my ribs and eat my lungs.  
Well, I did have his knife.  
That didn't help a lot, actually.

We stared at each other a moment longer before I placed his knife back on the ground. Seemed like a wise enough move to have him not wrestle it out of my grasp and throttle me.

"Thanks for....not brutally murdering me? Again?"

Michael slumps over slightly, reaching for his knife as it lays idly on the floor.  
I can't really help but watch for each and every detail, as even the slightest movement is imperative to my survival.  
He picks the knife up, which slips into his fingers more than perfectly. It seems more balanced there than in my own, so his profession certainly shows. Though, he sets it back down again and returns to watching me.

Gingerly plucking one of the green beans from it's icy waters, I eat it. Cold and sad.  
I realize that I probably should have asked for something warm, but I highly doubt that an abandoned house even has gas heating. Let alone anything flammable that wouldn't light the rest of the house on fire.

An afternoon of existential terror, eating green beans, and continually stealing his warmth as I sat against him.

I half wished he would get the stabbing over with.


	2. Hold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Re-tour.

After spending a few minutes eating a can of near frozen green beans, Michael had decided it was time I was given a tour.  
In the beginning of early evening.  
Wasn't like I already scoured every room already or anything.

Michael pulled me from the floor, though I still carried the can and continued to snack upon them as he dragged me around to each room.  
For each and every hollow cavity of a demented living space, Michael would stop and stand in the dead center of the room. For at least five minutes, though most likely a bit longer than that. He just stood there as the world grew darker, caring little for the amount of daylight in the room suddenly dropping in increasing amounts.

To be quite fair, I'm starting to get just the slightest bit fed up with his silence.  
But it's not like he's going to break a vow of silence made since '63, so I just have to deal with it.  
Or complain mentally like a little bitch.  
Which I am.

He continues to lug me around the house, and I continue to get lost further and further into thought.  
Such as, how could this middle aged man, even with his strength of evil, remain so spry? Anyone who gets out of practice with their muscles after a certain point, will flat out lose them. Use it or lose it, the term banged relentlessly into the brain of an inactive high-school student by their PE teacher.  
And staying in a mental facility for however many years paired with no practice.  
There was absolutely no possible way that he could remain this strong.

Taking hold of my arm once again, he pulled me willingly to the next room.  
It was the final room of the house. The one I'd slept in, the one the body had been lazily dumped onto the floor in, and the only bedroom in the house with a window.  
Boarded and shut, there was no chance of me getting out. Not if I wanted to keep my legs.  
Had I, in some bout of idiocy, decided jumping out that window would be a good idea, my ankles would snap the second I hit the ground. This would quickly turn from Michael genuinely seeming like he's not interested in murdering me, to that one weird Korean comic about the stalker breaking into a psychopath's home, getting kidnapped and being a hundred percent into it.  
Michael must have seen my face contort something fierce as we stepped inside, which could easily enough be explained by the smell though it really wasn't, so he brought me back out and shut the door.

"Okay thanks I guess," He pressed in watching me. Hand still clutched around my arm, I decided now was as a good a time as any to try and stare at his face while he watched me blab on.

I licked my lips, nearly instantly regretting it as cold air swept over them.

"Fuck." I watch the corners of his eyes bunch up. There's not a single wrinkle to be seen, and the ones that are there are from his skin pulling back, I can't even see any emotion past that. He could be recoiling or smiling, and I'd have no idea.

"You're-"

I could suddenly hear the heavy sound of metal on metal creeping up from the stairs. And with how he snapped his head around to look down them, it seems Michael did too.

His breathing grew soft. I could hardly recognize it. I thought that the mask amplified the hell out of it, but apparently he did have control over the situation.  
I remained frozen.  
He tapped my arm a few times as he let go, motioning to the corpse room. And a few more times. Until he carefully moved the door open and set me inside.  
I couldn't say the smell got any better, but whatever was going on downstairs certainly was getting louder.  
Metallic clacking against damp wood, and I could faintly hear the opening of the front door.  
These walls are paper thin, so it seems.

Made sense on how he heard me the moment I woke up, now that I think about it.

A few muffled voices creep through the ventilation, belonging to a younger sounding man and woman.  
Maybe teenagers at best.  
The day after Halloween, a bit late.  
But not late enough to miss Myers apparently.

"This is the dumbest idea you've..."

"Don't freak out....not like anyone..."

"Nobody's here, Ashley." That was more of a shout. I could hear the whole sentence.

"You don't know.."

"If they didn't want us in here, the door should have been boarded."

"It was-"  
A shriek rang out from the downstairs. Presumably the boy, as the sound was piercing within a few seconds rather than immediately.  
It was followed by silence for maybe a minute or so, and very soon a crack, and then a squelch.  
And then another crack.

Okay, that's a new one.

I stay still, lost in the silence for just a moment longer. I couldn't afford to not to stay quiet.  
I don't know how long I sat there in terrified silence.

Until I heard heavy footsteps creep up the stairs.

Michael pulled himself through the door, freshly bloodied hands latching onto the doorframe and coating it in a translucent red paste. It smudges and clearly clumps in oxidized horror.  
He lurched into the room, wiry limbs seeming far more daunting than normal.

I watched him march up in front of me, trembling hands reaching for my face as he stared down at me.  
I felt those warm, wet hands caress my face.  
I could feel the blood beginning to cool on my skin from where he had put his hands, removing them with the gentle tranquility of a tired god. Years of lamb held faith brought right to my face.

And I laughed.  
I could feel the giggle beginning to swell in my throat, before bubbling into a deep bellowed laugh.  
The thick metallic scent from the liquid made it's way into my system in much more potent amounts, and I laughed.  
I was horrified. I wasn't happy, sad, hell even shock would have been good. Genuine terror in my blood, and I was laughing. I wasn't the littlest bit grateful for this act.  
And Michael took his away hands after.

But that didn't stop me from laughing. I just kept going, maybe a minute or five, just laughter. I began to feel my face grow hot, and tears were clouding my vision.  
I hadn't even seen the bodies yet.  
Shit, did I even want to?  
I was beginning to grow tense, hands routinely getting thrown up for emphasis and then right back down again.

As I began to sputter another laugh, it dawned on me that I have absolutely no reason to laugh other than to aggressively strain my vocal chords to absolute exhaustion.  
So within another hearty chortle, I stopped mid-phrase and let the tears stuck in my eyes fall down in the emptiness.

Michael pressed his hands to my face again, thumbs left under my eyes while the rest of his fingers curled around the sides.  
I could hardly see him, rather feel. The force of his hands was full of weight. And though that was short lived, he began to wipe the tears from my face. Artificial in his movements, the gesture was still greatly appreciated.

I set my hands to the inside of his forearms before I mumbled a shaky apology. "I'm-fuck, I'm sorry."  
"I don't know why I did that."

He continued to softly rub at my cheeks a moment, before bringing his hands down to grab mine. And he pulled me from the room.  
I expected him to go for the stairs, lead me down to whatever mess he had made. Though, he pulled me back through the hallway and into the room we had spent most of the afternoon in.

The door was left open, likely so that the two of us wouldn't actually go blind in the dark. Or more likely, just me.  
Did I know whether or not he could see in the dark? No. Did I know that being able to see versus being bathed in darkness would make me feel just that little bit better? Yes. Indefinitely.

He pulled me to the humble Earth of the floor, bringing me closer to his chest so he could run his fingers through my hair. Apparently, he really, really enjoyed that.  
I was still teetering on the edges of whether or not he wanted to take his thumbs and press them into my eye sockets. I don't think I'll ever know.  
A steady stream of empty tears still coming down my face, he remained stoic as ever.

Even despite how much warmth I'd managed to steal from the man, I still could feel the tips of my fingers beginning to freeze. I began to cup my hands together, if only to rub them together for some kind of warmth while he insists on cradling me.

Michael is a mystery wrapped in an enigma, coated in a thick wax of unspeaking human hatred with a silk bow of repression on top.  
The only things I'd even learned about him were that he seemed to enjoy killing, throwing his hands into my hair as often as possible, and petting my face. And there's still the possibility he's just grooming me in order to have a much more satisfactory kill, likely with his older sister.

I let him hold me until the room grew far too dark to see anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I genuinely thought I lost this and I'd have to restart.  
> I was infuriated.  
> Luckily, it wasn't.
> 
> For the next few days I'll be doing more short stories so I don't get burnt out on this. I love writing it, but variety is the spice of life.


	3. Bleed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time.

It's the cold streams of sunlight drawing down my face that force me out of the realm of sleep. That and impassable hunger.  
I can feel the seeping feeling of the floor from underneath me, drawing warmth from my form.

I sit up, cold and, once again, alone. Did I even dare do anything to attempt escape? No, not really. Having a knife to the gullet or another hand to the throat didn't seem as worth it.

Managing to strip myself from the floor, I stand and throw my arms to the open winds, letting the dance of my muscles and joints take me where it needs to. To, even if only for this insignificant moment locked in only this miniscule memory, be free. As the caged bird sits inside it's prison cell, singing tales of forgotten freedoms,  I, too, am an annoying and loud cunt.  
And I demand food.

I clamor to the door, more or less concerned of the murderer who's home I've broken into and lived with for about three days now.  
I don't care.  
I have hardly eaten anything for the past three days, save for stale pizza and frozen green beans.  
I'll be damned if I can't have at least another can of green beans.

My dumb ass, taking leaps and heavy bounds down the main stairway, until I reach the foot of the stairs.

With a quick visual and mental check of "Wow are any string bean FAGGOTS in the area" and happening to not find any, I'd determined two things.  
Michael knows where the cans are. And I do not. And he is not here.  
I am hungry to the extent where far more hilarious swears will dribble off my lips in any coming second. 

So pulling through the kitchen, flinging my frozen appendages against the cupboards and pantry, it's no shock when I find nothing. So I get bored.  
And flip flop from room to room, looking for any differences.

The absolute first thing that went through my mind when I happened to slide into the living room, to see the congealed crimson mess splattered across the floor and walls, was, in instant:  
"Holy fucking weasel cock." It breathed off my lips, the exact sentence was engraved to me.  
It was impertinent, at every moment of my bruised and broken survival, to remember exactly what I'd begun to utter in this precise staple of time. Through my battering of being choked, strangled, nearly stabbed, stalked, and cuddled, this was the moment I remembered in picturesque clarity.  
Each detail of every small floorboard lifted, I could feel everything.

It was so surreal and yet so comforting.

In an abandoned house with a murderer, the smells of blood and vomit permeating each inch of the air as the two of us entwined into the fake reality we'd become.  
It felt like fiction.  
But the bruises on my neck and arms said otherwise, even though they are less sore.

Feeling so enraptured by the area was quickly dissipated when I did, in fact, remember that I was rooming with an actual psychopath.

I felt my breath hitch when the creaking of the floorboards directly behind me began to sound. I could feel the breath, hear it, maybe even smell it, as it hit my neck.   
At least Michael's still around.

He put his hands to my neck, I could feel my nerves go on end as he did so.   
The tips of his fingers were icy.   
The palms of his hands, warm. 

He huffed and stuck his face against mine, dropping his arms over my chest.  
Going limp, if you will.   
While I was stuck in complete, paralytic fear.

Pulling his arms back up, it was clear he didn't just want me standing around for the good majority of the day while he smelled my hair.  
And the seconds turned to minutes. He retracted, and soon enough, just happened to be standing behind me. Not a hand laid on me. This wasn't exactly normal from what I've continued to see for days, so turning around is an immediate option.

Those few seconds were a sharp jaunt of slowed agony.

As I turned, the words of "Hey, what the fuck are you doing" hardly even reaching my lips as my abdomen came into close contact with that silver blade I had seen the two nights prior.  
Sharp, daunting, and stained with a glossy red.

Pressed, for the most part, against my stomach.

Michael instantaneously retracted, long steps taken backwards to distance himself from me.  
But the worst had already been done. There was nothing left to say about it. He'd stabbed me in the fucking chest.  
I don't even know how the knife got there so fast when just the instant prior his hands were tracing up my neck. 

The pain was persistent, sharp. And when a wounded animal flees, they don't look back. Clutching my side, I darted for the kitchen, giving less than half a fuck about anything that could even possibly happen. I had all my belongings, it wasn't like I'd be leaving much behind.

What was I even thinking? I'd be more than happy to take this split second of freedom, to vault out the window into the chilled November air. To dart across the lawn, through and back to the street.

To feel the dripping red come off my chest, screaming for help.

To see the world go black as one of the neighbors clamored to the street.

To get out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey it me  
> sorry about the slow replies  
> my personal life is a fucking MESS right now  
> I doubt it'll get better soon lmao  
> expect a new book by January  
> thank you for keeping up with Time


End file.
